


Louder Than Bells

by nightshiftblues



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Priests, Bruises, Catholicism, Christianity, Demons, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, Prayer, Religion, Seduction, Sharing a Bed, Storms, is relevant to the themes of this work but not heavily featured, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 20:39:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16981425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightshiftblues/pseuds/nightshiftblues
Summary: Humans tend to misinterpret the concept of sin, too caught up in whatever moral framework is popular in their respective culture and time. As far as Heaven (and the alternative) are concerned, there are two, really quite straightforward ways of sinning; deliberately causing harm to others, and breaking one's deeply held convictions. A victimless crime, therefore, is only a sin insofar as one genuinely believes it to be wrong but chooses to do it anyway.This is why demons tend to take the form of everything we believe we shouldn't want.





	Louder Than Bells

Storms of this magnitude rarely creep up on seaside villages as stealthily as this one has. George glances at the hostile, pitch dark sky and yanks his hood down to protect his face from the assault of the elements. Not that it helps much - the trajectory of the rain is nearly horizontal due to the roaring wind. He has barely started down the path leading to the harbor when the first icy droplets trickle down his spine.

The cobbled streets are deserted of people, the sparse population of Easthaven, Maryland wise enough not to confront mother nature’s wrath. An empty trash can rattles down the street and a potted plant crashes into the pavement somewhere nearby. George spares a mournful thought to his own carefully cultivated garden and presses on. West Port is the end point of almost every road laid by the founders of the village over a century ago, so his trip is brief.

A lone raincoat-clad figure desperately wrenches at a rope at the very edge of the docks. George sighs under his breath and picks up his pace. Someone always loses a boat when a storm like this hits.

He recognizes Lee’s sturdy figure as he draws closer. Based on the heaving of his shoulders, the man has been battling the elements for a good while now. George grabs the end of the rope and wordlessly joins his efforts. He had the foresight to wear a pair of gloves, but it still feels like the fibers of the rope etch into his skin through the soaked fabric. George widens his stance and digs the balls of his feet into the slippery, sea-worn wood as they battle the pull of the ocean. The roar of the wind in his ears feels like a deliberate provocation at this point.

Thankfully their combined efforts prevent the sea from claiming the Bayliner cuddy Lee spent his retirement funds on two summers ago. Lee steps back, chest heaving and hands shaking with relief and exhaustion, and lets George fasten the knot.

_Thank you, reverend,_ George reads his lips - the wind picks up the words and hurls them out of his earshot. He smiles and nods, and Lee salutes for good measure. Over a decade in this community and the town still refuses to forget about his time in the service. George nods again, a bit curter this time, and sends Lee back to his family with a quick prayer for a safe journey.

He makes a quick round trough the docks, fastens a few sloppy-looking knots and takes a detour back to his house to ensure Mister Randall has managed to herd his sheep into shelter. By the time George makes it back to his hut, all his clothes save for his trusty boots have soaked through. The heavy fabric feels like an oversized, clammy layer of un-shedded skin clinging to his limbs, weighing him down.

It’s the thunderous flash of lightning illuminating the yard in sharp contrasts of blinding light and pitch black shadows that draws George’s eye to the small figure on the stairs of his church. At first he thinks it’s a stray of some kind, but another flash of lightning draws a distinctly human shape against the white of the large, fairly recently repainted set of doors.

George’s legs carry him across the muddy yard with urgency. Approaching, he identifies the figure as a young man - a boy - huddled up in the modest shelter offered by the pentice above the doors, hugging his knees.

George crouches down and slowly lowers his hand on the boy’s wet, hoodie-clad shoulder. The boy’s head snaps up, startled. It’s difficult to see anything at all in the dark, but a smear of blood right under his nose is visible against his pale skin. As visible as the fear in the whites of his eyes.

“Are you alright, son?”

The boy’s lips move but making out the words proves as impossible as at the docks, despite of the moderate shelter of the nearby forestry. It’s possible that his voice has been weakened by his soaked, shivering state, George reckons. A memory pushes its way, unprompted, into the forefront of George’s mind - his brother on the week the infection finally claimed him, his voice like the creak of a rusty swing set idly swaying in the wind.

George withdraws his hand and pulls back the collar of his raincoat, exposing the strip of white against his throat. He nods at the church doors, mothing the word _‘shelter’_ as clearly as he can with raised eyebrows.

The boy shakes his head, eyes still wide. Wet strands of black hair go flying and stick to his clammy cheeks in swirly patterns. A point made clearly enough. The refusal is followed by a sneeze that makes his whole body convulse. George’s fingers twitch at his side.

At a loss for other options, he tentatively gestures at his own house across the field. He doesn’t expect to receive a slow nod as a response, but nothing about this night seems to go as expected.

He extends a hand and, again contrary to his expectations, finds the skin of the boy’s palm warm, bordering on hot. _A fever?_ The boy doesn’t let go of George’s hand once he’s on his feet. George leads them back across the muddy field, guided by the light he left on in his kitchen window.

As soon as he manages to yank the heavy wooden door shut behind them, the howling of the storm fades into muffled background noise and his head feels two times clearer. Suddenly George can hear the drip of water from their clothes hitting the wood paneling of his floor, the boy’s slightly fractured inhales, and his own thoughts scrambling into order with perfect clarity.

There’s a beat of silence where they both just hover in the hallway.

George clears his throat and extends his hand. “George Washington, pleasure to meet you.”

The yellow glow of the hallway lamp confirms his suspicion; this boy is not a part of his congregation. He recognizes all the faces that attend his sermons, even the new and less frequent ones.

“Reverend.” The boy grabs his hand and, despite of his sorry state, there’s a sharpness to his handshake, and to the dark glint in his eyes as he peers up at George with his head slightly tilted. “Alexander Hamilton. Thank you for inviting me into your home.”

The lights flicker on and off like a candle flame in a heavy gust of wind. George glances up with a frown; the wiring is usually quite reliable even during storms. The grip of Alexander’s fingers tightens briefly, then slackens.

Right, priorities. First, eliminate the threat of hypothermia. Second, attend to injuries.

“Let me find some dry clothes for you, son,” George murmurs. “Make yourself comfortable.”

“Aye aye,” says a quiet voice behind him as George turns on his heels and heads for the bedroom.

“There’s tea in the cupboard, help yourself,” he calls over his shoulder.

He needs more time to work out how to ask the tough questions, figure out if he needs to make some phone calls. Between his military career and priesthood, George has dealt with scared and angry young men enough to know better than to broach the topic right away.

“Vanilla chai, how bourgie,” the boy - Alexander - remarks.

“We all have our little indulgences,” George calls in response.

The hum of the kettle carries from the kitchen as he crouches down at his dresser and scours for something the boy won’t completely drown in. A t-shirt, a heavy knit cardigan, a pair of sweatpants with a drawstring he can tighten to stop them from slipping down. A clean, albeit slightly coarse towel. Not ideal, but it will have to do.

When George ducks back into the living room, Alexander is yanking his hoodie off and draping it over the radiator. The soft glow of the kitchen lamp casts shadows over the sharp contours of his body - even the soft slope of his back is punctuated with the ridges of his spine. And by the shadows of his shoulder blades poking out, like fledgling wing stumps.

George makes a mental note to feed the boy a hearty breakfast before sending him wherever he needs to go. Regretfully, his fridge is near empty - he rarely has company.

The back of Alexander’s neck flushes as George approaches.

“It was totally soaked,” he mumbles, folds and unfolds his arms. Thankfully his ribs aren’t quite visible enough to be counted, even if George was looking closely enough to do such a thing.

He smiles even though Alexander’s gaze is glued to the floorboards, and hands over the stack of clothes. “The bathroom is the first door to the right. Let me know if you need help with operating the shower, or anything else at all.”

“Thanks,” Alexander mumbles, grabs the clothes and spins on his heels.

While Alexander showers, George finally relieves himself of his own cold and dripping clothes with a relieved sigh, slips into sweatpants and a sweater. He then finds blankets and pillows and makes as cozy a bed on his old thrifted couch as he can manage. The polite thing to do would be to offer his own bed to his guest and sleep on the couch himself, but George suspects that the boy might sleep easier where he can see the exit.

Alexander pads into the room, the towel slung over his shoulders, and George has to raise an eyebrow. The boy’s legs are bare, the hem of the borrowed t-shirt reaching nearly halfway down his thighs. His legs are as skinny as the rest of him, but not in a sharp and stick-like way, as one might expect. They’re more like a gymnast’s legs, slender and slightly toned.

And there are bruises; George habitually catalogues the damage in half a glance. A kick to the shin, another heavy one on the thigh. Vicious and effective, a few swift moves to get Alexander on the ground before the blows at his face were delivered, he suspects.

Maybe his eyes linger just a millisecond too long, as Alexander’s hands come down to tug on the hem of the shirt. George averts his gaze.

“The pants wouldn’t stay up,” Alexander mumbles.

George nods slowly. “Alright, let me find you another pair.”

“It’s cool,” Alexander calls after him, but George is is already striding to his bedroom.

He pulls out another pair of slacks with a drawstring, newer ones this time. Maybe stiffer fabric will hold up better.

Alexander is peering at his book self curiously when he re-enters the living room. Most people are surprised to find more philosophy and fiction than theology there, and the boy doesn’t seem like an exception. He accepts the new pair of slacks George hands him absentmindedly.

George steps back and keeps his eyes off the bruises this time around. Discretion or not, he can’t keep skirting around the increasingly growing suspicion that he has an abused, injured minor in his house in the dead of night.

He clears his throat. “If you would like me to accompany you as you report to the authorities, I would be happy to do so.”

George might as well have slapped the boy based on the shift in tension in the room. Alexander spins around and backs into the bookcase with a blunt thud.

“If you call _anyone_ I’m out of here, old man,” he spits.

George backs down another step. He knows what fear turned offensive looks like, particularly in young men. And there’s no mistaking the unsteady, rapid rise and fall of Alexander’s chest from a visceral, protective kind of fear, nor the way his eyes dart to all the exits, one of which is behind George’s back.

He raises his hands in surrender and side-steps so that the door is more visible.

“No one’s forcing you to talk to law enforcement, Alexander, as much as it would put me at ease to have someone professional looking at your injuries,” he says with the soft, steady tone of voice he uses in a confessional. “If you won’t go to the hospital, will you let me have look at them, at least?”

He keeps his expression neutral as the boy’s gaze rakes across it, scouring for insincerity.

“I’m fine. I don’t need medical attention,” he grits out.

George smiles cautiously. “Then humor me?”

The silence stretches taunt between them as Alexander keeps peering at George with suspicious defensiveness. His mouth feels dry.

Alexander’s shoulders slump. “Fine,” he says. “But only if you promise you won’t call anyone to get me.”

George lowers his hands. “With the storm raging like this, it would be too hazardous for anyone to drive anywhere tonight, anyway,” he says.

The light reflects off Alexander’s eyes in a way George hasn’t remarked with any prior visitor, like a small flame trapped behind a dark, tinted glass. “That’s not a promise.”

George chuckles. “Alright. I promise I won’t call anyone.” _Tonight._ He trusts that God sees his reasoning here.

He re-boils the kettle, brews them both a cup of tea and fetches his medical kit while Alexander somehow makes the sweatpants stay on his hips and nonchalantly hops onto counter, legs splayed. George supposes the elevated position helps him examine the boy without crouching down, so he allows it. His bones are starting to feel the five decades of carrying him through all the strenuous walks of his life thus far.

All earlier vitriol curiously gone, Alexander obediently tilts his head back so George can have a look at the cuts on his face.

“Your nose isn’t broken, thankfully,” he murmurs after leaning in and prodding at the bone lightly with his fingertips. “And your teeth…” He gently pushes on Alexander’s lower lip with his thumb and finds two rows of unharmed pearly whites, save for a small cavity towards the back. “No fractures, that’s good.”

George releases Alexander’s lip and his tongue darts out, lingering on the cut.

“Don’t do that.”

The tongue slips back into the mouth and the mouth clamps shut.

George nods and takes half a step back. “Let me disinfect those cuts so we won’t have to resort to licking your wounds to make sure they heal,” he murmurs.

A bad time to use the royal ‘we’, there. George cringes inwardly. Clearly he’s been thrown off kilter by the storm.

He hopes the quirk at the corners of Alexander’s mouth is due to some amusing, unrelated thought he just had.

George busies himself with soaking a pad of cotton with disinfectant.

“This will sting.”

The shade of Alexander’s face still tints towards pink, but the color seems a bit healthier now. His eyes don’t shy away from George’s face. “I can take it.”

George grabs his chin as lightly as he can and angles his face upwards as he dabs at the cuts with the cotton pad. Alexander’s eyes flutter shut and he inhales shakily.

The atmosphere has changed and, strangely enough, relaxed to a degree that George deems it safe to thread on thin ice again. “If I ask you what happened, will you tell me?” he asks, his voice carefully neutral.

Alexander’s eyes remain closed, but his smile sharpens around the edges.

“I fell.”

_No, then._ The response doesn’t even feign sincerity.

Not that George doesn’t have a rough idea regardless. Sadly, the types of stories that end with a bloodied boy shivering in the rain rarely have whimsical, convoluted lead ups.

This complicates matters; even if it wasn’t for the storm, could he reconcile with calling the authorities and having the boy returned into a potentially abusive situation? George wants to have faith in the system, of course he does, but something about Alexander’s presence feels resigned, like he is used to the abuse.

The set of Alexander’s shoulders remains relaxed, so George says, even softer: “You must realize that I do have a certain obligation to the community when it comes to minors.”

He sets the slightly pinkened pad of cotton aside as he waits for Alexander’s reaction. The cuts are thankfully nowhere near as severe as they had seemed outside, in the rain.

Alexander’s tongue darts out again and prods at the bleeding lip despite of George’s advice. It seems more like a nervous tick, so he allows it. “Well, then you’ll be glad to hear that I’m 18 now. I would know, my foster… guardian made sure to remind me of that fact,” he says slowly.

And there it is. Alexander’s eyes finally open, but his gaze stubbornly fixates on the collar of George’s shirt.

It’s not a slip. George can tell by now that Alexander is too sharp and reserved for accidental confessions. It’s a concession, something Alexander offers - very reluctantly - to put George at ease. A transaction of trust is being made here.

George nods slowly, to signal he appreciates it. “Very well, then. Happy birthday. I wish I could say that in lighter circumstances.”

A dry laugh. “Thanks.” Alexander’s eyes flicker up to his face. “Would that be all, reverend?”

He sighs. “I think I should check your bones for fractures too.”

Alexander rolls his eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

George steps forward and positions himself between Alexander’s knees. “Let me know if you feel any pain,” he murmurs and lowers his hands onto Alexander’s torso, slowly, so the contact won’t startle the boy. He didn’t see any bruising on his back or chest earlier, but it’s better to be safe. George has known men to carry out entire missions with unreported fractured collar bones and ribs, has done that himself once or twice. It’s surprisingly doable in the right circumstances.

Although, none of those men had bird-like bones rising and falling in an uneven rhythm along with the boy’s slightly sporadic breathing under George’s fingertips.

“Reverend, I-” George meets his gaze as his fingers press carefully into his ribcage, and Alexander pauses to suck on his lower lip. “I would like to repay you, somehow, for going out of your way to help me.”

Thunder crashes so loud the center of the storm must be nearby, but Alexander remains perfectly still. His fingers grip the edge of the counter and he leans in like he’s trying to catch a word George is saying just under his breath.

“Nonsense.” George smiles. “I wouldn’t dare call myself a man of faith if I didn’t do everything in my power to help those in need. It’s the least I can do.”

Alexander’s lips curl into a cat-like smile and the earlier sharpness takes form in his slightly hooded eyes again. “Well, no one’s accused me of being a one-way ticket to the pearly gates of Heaven before,” he says with a tone that tiptoes between dry amusement and outright snark.

George lowers his palm on Alexander’s thigh, the one he earlier saw the bruise on, and feels for any fractures in the bone. His mind flashes back to Alexander soaked and trembling on the church stairs, refusing to enter even though it was the closest place of shelter, and a whole lot more neutral ground than George’s personal apartment. The puzzle starts to take further shape at the back of his mind.

“Was your foster household a religious one?” he inquires.

Alexander’s eyes glint. “Which one?”

George only smiles and moves on to the other leg. Alexander gasps softly and he pauses, his palm at the very top of the boy’s thigh, raising a concerned eyebrow. “Did that hurt?”

Alexander exhales and shakes his head, eyes wide. He leans in again, so close George feels his warm breath brush against his jaw. He thinks he smells a hint of something impossibly sweet. “What are you thinking about, reverend?”

George doesn’t want to let it slide – in fact, the tug of protectiveness in his chest is tells him to _press,_ and keep pressing until the truth comes out.

He holds his breath for a moment, releases, slides his palm down to Alexander’s kneecap.

“I’m thinking it’s a shame that the church you’ve known isn’t the one that embraced me and gave me purpose when I most needed it,” he says, quiet.

Alexander seems thrown off guard. He blinks, still in his forward-leaning position, and sucks in his left cheek. Whatever his contemplations are, they end into a slow, confiding-like smile.

“Don’t feel bad, reverend,” he murmurs. “I am what I am, and I believe what I believe.”

George cocks an eyebrow and tilts his head. “And what do you believe, Alexander?”

The boy smiles like George finally got his lines right after hours of play rehearsal. “I believe in actions, and their consequences.” He leans in some more, examines Georges chest carefully like he’s seeing the heart beating underneath cotton and flesh and bone. “Action, and it’s subsequent, inevitable, opposite…”

George cannot be sure why he detects no movement; he must be distracted by the low purr of Alexander’s voice, the light reflecting off his dark pupils in the strangest manner. Nevertheless, he doesn’t even realize Alexander is touching him until two skinny fingers are pressing against the arch of his hipbone.

A single backward step takes George out Alexander’s reach, even in his forward-leaning position.

“Congratulations, you pass your physical examination,” he says. Hopefully he only sounds winded to his own ears.

George has to look away from the pang of disappointment in the boy’s eyes.

“I think we both need some rest, do help yourself to anything in the kitchen if you’re hungry, though I must admit there regretfully isn’t much,” he rattles off as he backs up to the door of his bedroom. “Sleep well, I’ll be right next door if you need anything.”

Alexander crosses his arms and slumps back as George steps into his bedroom. “Thanks. Sweet dreams, reverend.”

George flashes his most genuine smile before he closes the door. “Sweet dreams, Alexander.”

He takes a deep, steadying breath as the door clicks closed. After a shameful pause, he twists the lock as softly and silently as he can.

_He’s just a boy,_ he thinks to himself, and feels a flash of shame for being unsure of whether it’s a reassurance or a stern reminder.

He runs his palm over his eyes and shoots an exasperated, pleading look at his ceiling.

_I come to Thee, throwing myself into the arms of Thy tender mercy._

 

~~~

 

George cannot say what the dream was even about, afterwards. He remembers fragments of shame, want, bewilderment, heat. Mostly heat, pressing into his skin and sinking into the marrow of his bones. Like that fever he had as a boy, the one that got so bad his mother invited the local pastor with the cold, feeble fingers to his bedstead.

So when the mattress dips, it barely stirs him at first. George has always been a light sleeper, some part of him still always ready to roll out of his army cot and spring into action at the slightest provocation, but it takes the press of another body along his front to shake him out of the peculiar dream.

He grabs the foreign object in his space and hinds a handful of warm skin. A long sigh is elicited, and thin, warm fingers wrap around George’s wrist as he tries to withdraw it.

“…Alexander?” he locates the name of the most likely culprit from the depths of his hazy consciousness.

Another sigh, a slightly more exasperated one this time.

George’s eyes, unadjusted to the dark, only see shapeless blobs, but the heat of another body in his bed in suddenly unmistakable. “Alexander? Why are you here?”

He pulls back from the tempting warmth but there isn’t much room to move, even if Alexander’s frame takes up hardly any space at all.

George can see well enough now to make out the movement of Alexander’s shoulders seizing up. The boy buries his face into the corner of the blanket and mumbles: “Please, I’m scared of the storm.”

George remains frozen with conflicted compassion when Alexander scoots closer and buries his face into his chest.

“I don’t think… this isn’t-“

A loud crash of thunder and Alexander’s whole frame goes rigid – something George feels intimately as their bodies press closer together. His hand finds, unthinkingly, the soft strands of hair at the nape of Alexander’s shivering neck.

“It’s nothing to be afraid of, my boy,” he murmurs and rubs the top of his spine. “Just some wind and thunder.”

“I’m scared the house will topple, reverend” Alexander whispers into the fabric of his shirt. “I’m scared they’ll come for me.”

“Your foster parents don’t control the weather,” George murmurs and unthinkingly dips his hand into the loose neckline of Alexander’s oversized t-shirt to rub on the space between his shoulder blades.

Alexander shivers again and presses in closer, so close that George feels the movement of his lips against his chest as he whispers: “Thank you, reverend.”

Hearing that title fall from Alexander’s lips makes George’s stomach burn with shame, but his eyelids grow heavy as he listens to the steady purr of the boy’s breathing, barely audible beneath the tap of the rain against his window.

_Thou art my sure refuge, my unfailing and only hope._

 

~~~

 

The heat is back; it licks at George’s insides and leaves them charred and black. The blanket is gone, and yet his skin is sticky with a sheen sweat. And there’s the heat, pinning him into the mattress no matter how much he stirs and groans.

Another groan, one that comes from a different source, pulls George out of his dazed state somewhere between dream and consciousness. The groan vibrates against the tendons of his neck, which is where Alexander’s lips are.

George flinches and removes his palm from – God have mercy – Alexander’s lower back.

“It’s okay,” Alexander murmurs against his collarbone, his breath cool on the saliva-slick skin. “I told you I was eighteen.” A graze of teeth. “And you want to.”

“No, it is not,” George grits out, as much for Alexander’s benefit as his own. Only now he fully registers the state of arousal he has slipped into since he dozed off. Sickening shame warms his skin even beyond the heat radiating off Alexander’s frame pressed snugly against his front.

“Then throw me out,” Alexander whispers and drags his fingertips down George’s tense abdomen. “Let the rain purge you of me, reverend.” His teeth nip the taunt skin over George’s collarbone again and it does feel like he’s being flayed, stripped down to his corrupted core and laid out bare in his bed.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he grunts and wills his hands to stay still at his sides. How is it possible that it feels like Alexander’s petite body is managing to touch every bit of his burning skin?

“Then let yourself enjoy something for once in your pious, depraved life,” Alexander murmurs and uses George’s shoulder as leverage to drag himself upwards – and straight to his mouth.

_Thou has a remedy for all my evils, relief for all my miseries, reparation for all my faults._

There’s that sweetness again. George feels lightheaded and weighed down at once when Alexander’s tongue slips into his mouth. He grabs fistfuls of the sheets to keep himself from touching, as if just laying there and allowing himself to have this makes it right somehow.

Alexander is fully on George’s lap now, something that abruptly registers when lithe hips drag against his. George hardly recognizes the half-growl that the contact pulls out of his throat. Alexander whines quietly and practically writhes on his lap. The kiss that started out so brash and confident is starting to feel more and more like a desperate plea.

“Touch me,” Alex gasps when he finally pulls back and George winces inwardly at how much he misses the contact of that mouth. Even through the layers of fabric, he feels his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms.

If touching the boy would have been wrong a week ago, it is wrong now. He is barely eighteen. A _child._ A clever one, perhaps more so than a number of adults George has met in his days, but a child, nevertheless. He needs to explore these urges with someone without the leverage of experience and authority and dependence. There are no excuses to be made here.

George runs his tongue over his lower lip, a tick he regrets it as he discovers the vaguely sweet taste of Alexander’s mouth (chapstick?) lingering there.

“Go to the living room, Alexander,” he says as steadily as he can.

There’s stillness in the darkness and George’s relief at not having to see the boy’s facial expression is short lived as a violent flash of lighting filters through the parted curtains.

There must be something warped about the shadows it casts however – if George didn’t know better, he would almost think the boy is looking down at him with sharp, cold calculation mixed with mild amusement in his jet black eyes.

The room falls into darkness again, the thunder cracks and the moment passes. Alexander’s thighs tense up with fear and George must deliberately harden himself against the impulse to tuck this foolish boy against his chest and forget all about this whole ordeal. He won’t fool himself twice.

Alexander’s voice comes out timid, like all that prior confidence has been punched out of him. “I’m sorry.”

George runs his palm over his eyes. It comes back damp. “Nothing to apologize for, my boy. I should have set clearer boundaries.”

Alexander is still very much sitting on George’s pelvis. He swallows down with mild effort.

“Go to the living room, Alexander,” he repeats.

“But reverend, please-“

“Now, Alexander.” That tone of voice comes too close to broaching the drill sergeant George has gone to great lengths to bury over the years. It is a bad fit combined with the cassock.

It proves effective however – Alexander climbs off of George’s lap with a quiet sigh. It’s not as though the boy had been heavy (to the contrary), but it still feels like George manages to draw in a full breath for the first time since he woke up.

“Good night, Alexander,” George calls after the boy as he shuffles to the door.

“Night, reverend,” comes the dejected response.

George holds his breath until the bedroom door is securely closed, and spends good ten minutes lying very still and anxiously listening for any hint of noise from the living room, to no avail. He keeps his hands carefully laid over the blanket and muffles a sudden burst of incredulous laughter at his own pathetic lack of self-control.

He’ll have to dedicate some extra time for prayer tomorrow, George thinks as he gradually starts to drift into uneasy, restless sleep.

And lock his bedroom door.

_Thou canst supply for what is wanting in me  
in order to obtain fully the graces that I ask for myself and others._

**Author's Note:**

> Song fics are out, Catholic petition prayer fics are in


End file.
